


Dark Days

by MsBarrows



Series: Dark Days [1]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Abuse, Anal, Bondage, F/M, Fingering, Fisting, Gang Rape, Hurt/Comfort, Intercrural Sex, Kink Meme, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Multi, Oral, Prompt Fic, Rape Recovery, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, k!meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-19
Updated: 2011-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-25 14:45:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsBarrows/pseuds/MsBarrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the k!meme, in which Zevran is the subject of gang rape and is later comforted by Alistair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Zevran is captured by Taliesin and has some very traumatic experiences before Alistair and others arrive to rescue him, followed by extensive comforting from Alistair.

They shouldn't have gone out for a walk without the others, Zevran found himself thinking in despair as bodies piled on him, pining him to the ground. Too late to regret now; Taliesin's ambush had been well-laid. Kalli and he had been confronted in a quiet backstreet, Taliesin stepping out to block their path – he'd always been one for showmanship – before signalling his followers to step out of the shadows and make themselves known.

"I should feel flattered, I suppose," Zevran observed as he and Kalli drew their weapons, moving to stand warily back-to-back. "All of these, just to deal with _me?_ "

Taliesin had grinned wolfishly. "You have proven an annoyance for the Crows lately, my sweet," he purred. "Failing to carry out your assignment, and then, even worse, siding with those you had been sent to kill? It is a black mark on our record. I have travelled all the way to this lice-ridden pestilential hole of a country to deal with it. And you," he added, then nodded to his party. "Take them," he said, voice flat and hard.

Zevran and Kalli had fought desperately, but there were too many for them to fight off, far too many of them, and in fairly short order he heard Kalli cry out, knew she had fallen, and then something sank painfully into his unguarded back – an arrow, he thought – and then the first of them tackled him to the ground, his cries of anger and pain drowned by their shouts of triumph. A weight hit the arrow, bringing a spike of nauseating, terrible pain, and he blacked out for a moment.

* * *

  
Booted feet before his face, hands – many hands – holding him, arms pulled painfully back and up, knees digging into his back and legs, weighting him down. A hand tangled in his hair, yanked his head savagely back to face upwards to where Taliesin stood over him, a familiar sardonic smile twisting his lips.

"And so the great Zevran Arainai is easily captured in the end," the man sneered.

Zevran spat. "Just get it over with and kill me," he snarled.

"Oh, no, my friend. You don't get to die easily, not with as much of a thorn in the side of the crows as you have been of late. No, you're going to live for a very long time my friend. We'll even be taking you back home to Antiva, to the tender loving care of those who've missed you so much since you fled. An _example_ is going to be made of you," the man purred.

Zevran felt his stomach churn, imagination filling in all too easily what sort of fates being made an example of might include.

"But before we go, there is one little job to take care of," the man said. "You see, I am here on two contracts, not just one – your capture, and the death of those _you_ failed to kill."

"No!" Zevran exclaimed in horror as the man beckoned, and Kalli – groggy, but awakening – was dragged into view before him, held by almost as many hands as he was.

She was thrown to the ground before him, pinned down facing him, and Taliesin knelt down, one knee planted solidly in the small of her back, one on the ground beside her, winding his hand in her long hair and yanking her head back. Just so he had held Rinna before he killed her. Just so he did now, wicked knife glinting in his fist as he held it to Kalli's slender, pale throat. He grinned again at Zevran, teeth white and gleaming in the fading sunlight.

"You do a very poor job at protecting your women, Zevran," he chided. And drew the knife across her throat.

Zevran screamed and heaved even as the knife began its movement, but too many were holding him down, preventing him from doing anything but watching helplessly, her blood spattering his face as he screamed and swore and struggled like a man possessed.

Taliesin's head suddenly jerked to the side, frowned. He dropped the dying elf to the ground. "Bring him," he ordered sharply, and hurried off.

As something connected solidly with his head, sending him plunging into darkness, Zevran's last sight was of Kalli lying sprawled limply face down in a rapidly-spreading pool of her own blood, his last awareness of the sound of shouting and combat somewhere nearby, and a mabari barking frantically.

* * *

  
Healing hands, cupped over a spot of diminishing soreness on his back. For a moment he almost believed it had been nothing more than a terrible dream. "Wynne...?" he gasped out.

A snort. A distinctly male voice called out from behind him. "He's awake, ser."

A murmur of conversation from somewhere nearby cut off. "Good," a familiar voice replied, in a low menacing purr. Taliesin. Not a dream then, but sheerest nightmare. Adrenaline surged through him, clearing the last of the clouds from his head and making him all too painfully aware of the situation he was in.

He was bent forward over some hard surface, a table perhaps by its size, one either too large and heavy to move, or perhaps fastened to the floor. He was naked, his arms almost painfully outstretched to either side. He turned his head to one side, seeing he was fastened into heavy leather cuffs and chained to the surface, the cuffs buckled too tightly to slip off over his hands, the material too soft to easily dislocate his thumbs against, a trick he'd used more than once in the past to enable him to compress his hand into a tight enough compress to slip bonds. He'd killed a man once with that trick, one who'd thought him helpless...

Footsteps, approaching, and then a view of familiar boots, blood-spattered now. A hand wove into his hair, pulled his head cruelly back. He tried to spit, and was slapped across the face before he could gather enough liquid to make the effort.

"You disappoint me, whoreson," Taliesin grated. "Such a lack of imagination."

He held Zevran's head up for a long moment, hand tightening painfully in Zevran's hair as he studied his face, then released his head and walked around back of him.

Zevran shuddered as he felt a hand touch his back, stroke slowly down it to his buttocks. "You know what I've always most regretted about killing Rinna?" Taliesin asked, voice seeming light and almost pleasant in tone, thoughtful. Zevran tensed at the words, snarled and jerked angrily at his bonds. A second hand was placed on his buttocks, fingertips and thumbs massaging at his flesh.

"I've always regretted that I didn't fuck her before cutting her throat," Taliesin continued, conversationally. "Silly me, I didn't want to ruin your opinion of me. I thought with the dumb bitch dead we'd go back to the way things were between us. And then you ran away anyway. I was disappointed, whoreson, _very_ disappointed. So now, I'm going to do to you what I didn't do to her. I'm going to fuck you _bloody_ ," he snarled.

He felt his cheeks pulled apart, then pressure against his backside. Unprepared, unloosened, it _hurt_ as Taliesin forced his way in, Zevran struggling and crying out from the shock and pain of it. He could hear Taliesin cursing and swearing as he shoved his way in with tearing force, was unable to stop his own keening cries of pained outrage. The Crow barely paused after seating himself before pulling back and slamming harshly forward again. Taliesin rammed into him repeatedly, jarring him with bruising force against the hard edge of whatever he was bent over, fingers digging into his side and shoulder hard enough for nails to score the skin. He could hear soft voices around them, knew others watched as the man who'd once been his trusted partner, his lover, brutally raped him.

He was dizzy and gasping when it finally ended, Taliesin spurting hotly into him. He felt the man collapse over him, weight briefly pinning him down to the table. Hands stoked his shoulders, his sides in a mockery of affection, cupped his head, thumbs rubbing ticklishly along the edges of his ears.

"So good, Zevran, so tight," Taliesin whispered hoarsely. Words he'd used sometimes back when they _had_ been lovers, back in Antiva, before Rinna entered their lives and everything changed. "You won't be for long," he added, savagely, and pulled away. Zevran heard the rustle of him righting his clothes.

"Use him as you wish," Taliesin called out, as he walked back around the table and took a seat in a chair in full view of Zevran. "Just do not kill him, or injure him in ways our healer cannot easily repair. He has to live to entertain the masters back in Antiva City."

Zevran stared at Taliesin, letting all his loathing for the man show in his face as figures closed in around him. Dead. He would see the man dead for this, even if it was the only thing he managed to accomplish before his own death. _You are a dead man_ , he thought at the seated Crow, keeping his eyes locked with his until a body stepped between them.

* * *

  
No rest, except when he briefly passed out and had to be revived. No food, and very little water. Near-constant abuse, much of it sexual in nature. Beatings, whippings, repeated rape, torture both subtle and gross. He was bruised and abraded over much of his body, would have died several times if not for the intervention of the healer. He had no idea how long he had been in their hands now; more than one day, he thought, but had no idea how many. Days and nights were identical, in this windowless, lantern-lit room, the only change being how many people were there, and what they were doing to him.

They were trying to break him, he knew.

He was not fragile.

He had a goal. _Taliesin must die_. He would live, at least until he accomplished it, though he did not know how it could be done. For what the man had done to Rinna. For what he had done to Kalli. For what he was having done to Zevran. _He would die._

* * *

  
Hands on him, again, fingernails scraping painfully across already-abraded flesh, more hands on him, pulling and pushing, then a hand _in_ him. He would have screamed if he could, but had only a whisper of voice left. He whimpered, instead, lowering his forehead to the cool wood surface beneath him, trying to find the place he could sometimes go where it didn't matter what was being done to his body, where he floated as a separate entity, uncaring what abuses were heaped on his weakening form.

He was called back to himself by Taliesin's voice, nearby, talking, not to him but to someone else. The voice that answered was familiar, too, though it took him a while to place it. A whiff of bear-scent, as the man moved closer. Master Ignacio. He peered blearily upwards through swollen eyes at the man. " _Mentiroso hijo de puta_ ," he husked out.

The man sneered down at him. "It is not I who am the son of a whore, Zevran. You have such a smart mouth. I think I would like to see it put to a more satisfying use," the man said, voice quiet, even, almost uninflected, eyes uncaring of the beaten state of the man before him.

He tugged open the laces of his leggings, reached down and took Zevran's jaw in a punishing grip. "Bite me, and you will regret it. These children have poor imaginations compared to what _I_ would do to you, were I angered."

Hands like a vise clenching around his head, holding it bent uncomfortably far back and still, thumbs forcing his jaw down and open. The smell and taste of warm, sweaty none-too-clean flesh filling his mouth. He closed his eyes, concentrating on breathing as his airway was blocked again and again by a too-large obstruction. He moaned, gasped, then gagged and sputtered after the man came and finally withdrew.

"The boat?" he heard Taliesin ask.

"Tomorrow night. I will send word when it is time. And a crate to pack him in. He can be shipped like any dangerous animal."

Taliesin laughed at that, an ugly sound. "He shall be packaged and ready to go. I will take care of my final assignment tonight," he said, then called out in a louder voice. "Hear that, whoreson? It's back to Antiva for you tomorrow. Tonight, I will kill the remaining Grey Warden. Shall I bring you a souvenir, afterwards? His cock to stuff you with, perhaps?"

Zevran ignored the taunting words, pressing his forehead again to the wood under him, fighting despair at Taliesin's words. Alistair. Please the Maker, let Taliesin fail. Bad enough that Kalli was dead, but their big, bumbling friend as well? No, please, not that.

Ignacio disappeared again. Taliesin taunted him a while. Took him again, almost as brutally as the first night, the impact of it lessened by repetition since then, and the state of his thoroughly abused body.

"Loose as a whore," Taliesin hissed in disgust when he was done. "Hopefully you will have a chance to tighten up on the sea voyage, or the masters back in Antiva will be much disappointed in your performance. Though maybe it would be even better to make you the plaything of the sailors. Would you like that, Zevran? I'm sure they'd be happy to be _friendly_ with a pretty little elf like you..."

The sound of splintering wood interrupted Taliesin. He cursed, moved away.

Familiar voices, shouting in anger. The dwarf, the giant, Alistair, the witch, Wynne. Tears stung his eyes, to hear the familiar sounds. He cried, silently, in relief and fear both.

A head rolled to a stop nearby. Dark hair, spattered with blood. Taliesin's head. Dead. The bastard was dead.

Good. It was okay for him to let go now, to die as well. Taliesin was dead, and Alistair safe, judging by the roar of his battle cries.

Battle sounds that were already fading away, the remaining crows doubtless dead or fled after Taliesin's fall. A voice nearby, shocked swearing of a level of profanity he would never have imagined hearing from Wynne's lips. He would have laughed, if he could. Felt the touch of healing magic. Wished, abruptly, that he was not naked before all their eyes in his shame and degradation.

Legs moved into view. Female ones, leather-clad. Familiar ones. Ones that he should _not_ be seeing, unless perhaps she had come to escort him away into the Fade, a final grace. Kalli knelt before him, on one knee, hands rising to gently cup his head. Her eyes were brimming with tears, and a jagged raw red scar slashed across the front of her throat.

"You're dead," he told her, in the faint whisper of his broken, shredded voice. "Am I dead too?"

She shook her head. "No, I am not dead. And neither are you," she rasped. He wanted to wince at the sound, a harsh croak, broken, not the sweet sound he was used to. She looked up, to the side. "Just cut the damned things off," she rasped, releasing his head to blot at her tears with the back of one hand

"On it," he heard a familiar voice say. Alistair. Cloth settled over his back, blessedly hiding him from view. A cloak. Alistair's, judging by the smell of it, still warm from the man's body. He felt a large hand steadying his arm, the cool touch of metal between arm and tabletop as a wickedly sharp blade easily parted the thick leather around his wrist. Saw Alistair's legs walk past, then felt the same on the other side.

"I've done what I can for him here," he heard Wynne saying, sounding exhausted and distraught. "We'll have to carry him back; he's too injured to move on his own."

"Got it," Alistair said, voice raw with emotion.

Hands closed around him, tried to move him and pick him up as gently as possible. The movement, especially of his arms that had been for so long outstretched motionless, sent terrible pain racketing through his body. He managed a single, strangled scream, then passed out.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

He felt a moment of panic when he first woke, until his first breath in brought him familiar smells; metal, armour polish, sweat, lye soap, a hint of male musk. _Alistair_. He opened his eyes, looking around. An unfamiliar room, but the big man asleep in a chair beside the bed, feet up on the edge of it, looking tired and worn, was familiar indeed.

He tried to move, and every muscle in his body seemed to protest at once. He groaned aloud before he could bite off the sound. Alistair jerked awake, his chair nearly skidding out from under him at the sudden movement.

"Zevran? Are you all right?" he asked, then winced. "Stupid question. Forget I asked it."

"Where...?" Zevran asked, making a vague gesture at the room around them with one hand, even that slight movement seeming tiring and almost unbearably painful.

Alistair's lips thinned. "Room in an inn, near the docks. We didn't think it would be a good idea to haul you back to the Arl's estate in the condition you were in. This was the closest place we could find."

Zevran managed a fractional nod, his eyes already wanting to drift closed again. He heard the creaking of the rickety chair as Alistair moved, felt the bed shift. A warm hand touched his cheek, patted lightly. He managed not to flinch, barely.

"Hey, Zevran, stay with me a few minutes now that you're awake," Alistair said softly. "Come on, open your eyes again. I've got some potions for you, and then some nice... well, rather cold and scummy broth. I can fetch more from the kitchen, after you have the potions..."

Zevran managed a faint smile, forced his eyes open. "Potion. I cannot stay awake long," he cautioned, knowing it for truth.

Alistair nodded, hurriedly reached to pick up a clinking bag from the floor nearby. He extracted a vial of reddish liquid, uncapped it and helped Zevran to raise his head enough that he could hold the lip to the elf's mouth, slowly tilting it as Zevran swallowed and swallowed and swallowed again.

"Can you manage another?" Alistair asked anxiously. "Wynne said to dose you with as many of them as you could take."

Zevran gave a very tiny sideways shake to his head. He could feel the potion sitting queasily in his stomach, knew trying a second would only have him throwing them both up. Not something to risk, with any movement as painful as it currently was. Food, perhaps... "Broth?" he whispered.

Alistair nodded, lowered his head back to the pillows, and crossed the room to pick up a bowl from a nearby table. Zevran managed two sips, then pursed his lips shut, shaking his head again. Alistair lowered him again, walked away – he presumed to return the bowl to the table.

"The others?" he whispered, eyes already drifting shut.

If Alistair answered, he didn't hear it.

* * *

  
Alistair was still in the chair – or rather, again in the chair – when he awoke again. Folded uncomfortably in half, his head resting on crossed arms on the bed, a strange little puttering snore sounding from underneath. It made Zevran laugh – weakly – and then groan at the pain that caused. The warrior muttered sleepily, raised his head, smiled crookedly when he saw the assassin awake.

"Potion time," he said. Zevran nodded, and accepted his help in drinking it. There was more broth, afterwards, this time from a small pot hanging over coals in the room's fireplace, warm and much tastier than before. He was already feeling a little better, a little stronger, though still dangerously, frighteningly helpless. As he lay back again against the pillows, he grimaced at the sour reek of his own long-unwashed body. Old sweat, the sour tang of vomit, coppery scent of blood, semen... he squeezed his eyes shut, _forcing_ the too-close memories back again.

"Alistair," he said, voice shaky. "I need a bath."

He could _hear_ the concerned frown in the man's voice, did not have to open his eyes to see it. "I... don't know if I should move you. Wynne said to avoid it. And..."

"Alistair, _please_ ," he begged. "If I cannot get clean, get this _filth_ off of me and _out of me_ , I will begin screaming. And I do not think I will be able to stop. _Please_."

Barely a pause. "All right," Alistair said, sounding strained. "I'll... see what I can do."

" _Thank you_ ," Zevran said, and let sleep briefly reclaim him.

* * *

  
Quiet voices, strange ones, female, and the sound of water pouring into a metal tub. He cracked his eyes open, was relieved to find the drapes around the bed pulled shut, leaving him hidden from prying eyes. Even if it did trap the stink of himself, of _others_ , inside with him. He heard Alistair's voice, moderately cheerful, somewhere nearby. Talking to whomever was filling the tub, he guessed. He floated for a while, listening to the comforting sounds, promising himself that he would be clean soon, keeping himself from panic.

Eventually the sounds died away, and then the curtains were yanked open again, Alistair standing beside the bed. He smiled nervously at Zevran. "Bath is all ready. Soap and towels and everything."

Zevran nodded. "I will need your help," he said. A self-evident truth, when he was too weak to even sit up by himself.

Alistair nodded, and bent down, slipping one arm behind Zevran's shoulders, the other behind his knees, and carefully lifted. Zevran hissed and cursed as his whole body protested. "Keep going," he ordered, when Alistair hesitated.

Alistair carried him over, and clumsily manoeuvred him into the tub, banging his dangling arm once again the lip and then apologizing profusely, looking mortified. Zevran managed a smile at that. "I am all right," he said. "It is just one more among many," he added.

That was a bad thought to have, when every inch of his skin was covered in mottled bruising. He had to close his eyes for a minute, think only of good things, like how pleasant the hot water felt, sore muscles relaxing a little in its comforting heat.

"Zevran?" Alistair, sounding worried.

He opened his eyes again, forced a smile. "I am all right," he repeated. "Just... bad memories, for a moment. Now, you mentioned soap... not that horrible lye stuff you use, is it?"

Alistair smiled. "My lye soap is perfectly good soap..."

"Yes," Zevran interrupted. "If you're a dirty floor or a piece of armour. It is not so good for skin..."

"... _but_ I remembered how _scathing_ you always are about it, and asked the chambermaid to get some nicer soap," Alistair overrode him, and picked up a bar from beside the tub, a pale cream in colour, and sniffed at it. "Honey, I think, and something like chopped grass..." he said, and held the bar out for Zevran to sniff at too.

"Chamomile," Zevran identified the scent. "A kind of flower. It makes a very good tea, as well."

Alistair nodded, and settled down to kneel beside the tub, dipping a washcloth in the gently steaming water and then soaping it up. He lifted Zevran's arm, ignoring this time his hiss of discomfort, and began cleaning it. He had a surprisingly gentle touch, Zevran noticed. He relaxed into the hot water as much as he could, letting his mind drift as Alistair efficiently washed him.

"Can you manage the, umm... intimate bits... or do you need help with those too.?" Alistair asked nervously.

Zevran re-opened his eyes, which had drifted shut at some point, and saw the man blushing. He smiled. "Unfortunately I will need help. And not just the, err... most obvious location. I will need a douche, as well."

"A... what?" Alistair asked, even as his hands reached under the water to wipe clean Zevran's 'intimate bits'.

Zevran turned his eyes up to the ceiling, thinking it would be easier on both of them if he didn't look at the man while explaining. "A douche. An _internal_ cleaning. The so-helpful chambermaid can likely find what is required for it. In a pinch a waterskin can be used, though you would not want to use it for drink afterwards."

"I don't want to know what this is going to involve, do I?" Alistair asked, sounding... appalled.

Zevran managed a weak laugh at that. "Unfortunately I will need your help with it. I suppose the inn might have a servant that could be tipped well enough to do what is... necessary. But I do not believe I could sit still while a stranger put their hands on me right now."

"Oh," Alistair said, voice small. Then sat up. "All right. I'll... ring for the chambermaid."

He moved away. Zevran closed his eyes again, returning to the drifting state that was currently most comfortable, not actually asleep but not paying overmuch attention to anything either.

An acrid scent of warm vinegar reach his nose, and he opened his eyes again to find Alistair returning to kneel down beside the tub again, a pitcher in one hand, a bulbous leather _thing_ held in one hand, stiff-but-flexible leather formed into a bladder-like shape, with a short, narrow, smooth-edged neck at one end. Zevran nodded. "Good. You should take off your shirt, I will have to try and kneel, holding on to you, while you... make use of that," he said, keeping his voice as neutral as he could.

Alistair wasn't blushing any more; he was rather too pale, if anything. He nodded, setting down the items, and stripped his shirt off, tossing it aside to land on the chair he'd been sitting on earlier. "Right. Tell me everything that needs doing, before we get started."

"The... leather bottle... you fill it with the vinegared water, then the neck is placed inside my, ah, nether entrance, and the bottle squeezed gently to fill me with the liquid inside. Then the bottle is removed and I, err... _expel_ the liquid. It will take two or three such fillings before I am clean enough, I think. After which I would suggest we do a final douche with a health potion. I am... damaged, inside, and short of asking Wynne to put her magic fingers in a most _unfortunate_ location – not a conversation I would wish to have with the woman, no matter how magnificent her bosom is – a potion is the best we can do for now."

" _Maker_ , Zev, how can you _joke_ about..."

Zevran forced a smile. "Because it is either joke or scream. Come, let us get this over with before I loose my nerve. That vinegared water – which if prepared properly is salted as well – is going to burn like a very demon, but it will be even worse later if we do not take care of this _promptly_."

Alistair nodded, and fetched a vial of health potion, setting everything needed to hand, then pulled Zevran into an upright kneeling position, the elf's arms draped around his neck. Zevran rested his head on the man's shoulder, closing his eyes and concentrating on simple things, like the warmth of Alistair's skin – doubtless reddening with further blushes by now – and the familiar pleasant scent of him. Staying motionless as his nether cheeks were parted and the bottle's spout inserted was... difficult. Stinging warmth filled him, and it was all he could do not to scream and flail. His arms stiffened and tightened convulsively around Alistair's neck as he _forced_ himself to hold on, a single strangled sob escaping his throat.

Then the bottle was removed, and he felt Alistair's arms close around him, supporting him, the big so-gentle hands rubbing soothingly along his back, the man making little shhh-ing sounds of comfort. He gritted his teeth, forced sore muscles to tense, heard the liquid trickling back out of him and into the tub.

"All right. Again," he forced himself to say.

" _Zev_..."

"Just do it, Alistair. It must be done. Please."

They were both trembling from strain by the time he'd had all three douches.

"All right, health potion next," Alistair said, voice ragged with stress.

Zevran managed a nod. "I will... endeavour to hold it in, for a while. After which I suppose I will be ready for a good long sleep again."

Alistair nodded. Again the touch of hands and fingers, the intrusion of the stiff spout, then a coolness filled him. He gave a shaky sigh as the internal stinging faded slowly away, felt his grip around Alistair's neck slowly relaxing. He counted the flutter of Alistair's pulse against the side of his head, where it rested pressed against the side of the man's neck, until he felt long enough time had passed, then expelled the potion, too.

"All done," he whispered.

Alistair's arms tightened, lifted, hauling him out of the tub. The man quickly towelled him dry, with a towel kept warm near the fire, smelling of lye soap and clean air, and just slightly of smoke. _Good_ smells.

He was already drifting off again as he was carried back over to the bed. Not the waking-drift, but to sleep. He heard sheets rustling, felt himself lowered to the bed. Heard the chair creaking as Alistair settled down in it.

"Alistair..." he managed, forcing his eyes open again.

"Yeah?"

"Stop sleeping on that blighted chair before you do either it or yourself a mischief. This bed is more then large enough for the both of us, and I am _hardly_ in shape to ravish you right now."

A weak laugh in answer. "All right," Alistair responded, voice amused. He rose and stepped over to the bed, lowered himself cautiously to lie down on top of the sheets nearby.

Zevran let his eyes slip closed again. "Thank you," he managed to say. For many things. And slipped off into sleep again, feeling warm and clean and above-all _safe_ , with the warrior so near to hand.


	3. Chapter 3

The creak of the door opening brought Zevran awake and tense.

"Just us," a voice grated quietly. Worrisomely unfamiliar, at first, until he realized it was the same broken rasp he'd heard at the end, in wherever it was Taliesin had been holding him. Kalli's voice.

He turned his head, and saw her entering the room, a second, taller female form behind her. White-haired; Wynne. Smiled as he saw both their eyes get big at the sight of the man snoring in bed beside him. He reached out and nudged the man's ribs.

"Whazzit?" Alistair mumbled.

"We have guests," Zevran told him.

Alistair rolled upright, and blinked at the two, then smiled happily at the sight of the pair.

"Morning, sleepyheads," Kalli rasped, and walked over to sit down on the edge of the bed, taking Zevran's hand into hers. "How are you feeling?" she asked softly. Or at least as softly as her new, rough voice allowed.

"Somewhat better," he cautiously said after considering his state this morning. "How long...?"

"Since we rescued you? Two days. And you were held for three, almost four," she added, grimly. "I'm sorry it took us so long."

He shook his head slightly in negation, smiled. "At least you came in time. One more day and you would have missed me."

Her expression hardened. "So Master Ignacio told us. We wouldn't have found you at all, except he proved willing to... _negotiate_... in return for his continued life."

"He lives only until I see him again," Zevran grated out. "Then he is a dead man."

"Please, enough talk, let me see to our patient," Wynne said dryly.

Kalli nodded, and moved up to the head of the bed, sitting down where she could rest her hand on his shoulder while Wynne turned down the sheets to Zevran's waist, then used her healing energies on him. Most of the bruising faded further, leaving him mottled in yellow and green instead of black and blue, cuts and abraded areas scabbing over or healing entirely. Aches he hadn't even been aware of as separate hurts, so lost in all the other pains they'd been, faded as well. He drew a deep breath, and smiled when it didn't cause anything but a vague discomfort.

Wynne gave a tired sigh. "That's as much as I'd better do for now. Do you need any more potions for him, Alistair?"

The warrior shook his head. "He couldn't manage many of them at first. Maybe now that he's stronger..."

Zevran nodded in agreement, then had a thought. "Some salve or cream would not go amiss; something we can apply directly to the worst areas," he suggested.

Wynne nodded, and produced a squat ceramic jar from her backpack. "This should work – it contains mostly elfroot, for healing, and some very dilute deathroot, for its numbing effect.

"Well, sorry to make this such a short visit," Kalli said regretfully. "We're on our way somewhere else; another errand for Arl Eamon. Oghren and Sten are waiting downstairs, and we'd better fetch them and move on before they manage to get into trouble."

She leaned down and kissed his forehead lightly before turning to leave, Wynne following her.

"Be careful," Zevran called after her.

"Always," she promised him, with a crooked smile over her shoulder, before going out the door.

* * *

  
Alistair ran one hand through his hair, and smiled at Zevran. "Up to more potion now?"

Zevran made a face. "Yes. And then more delicious broth, I presume?"

"Or gruel, if you think you're up to something a little more solid. And maybe milk toast later."

"The joys of an invalid diet. Just a warning, if you try to feed me any calf's foot jelly, I will have to kill you."

Alistair laughed as he scrambled off of the bed, looking around for his abandoned shirt. He sniffed it, made a face, and fetched a cleaner one from his backpack, pulling it on before settling down to oversee Zevran's potion intake. He needed help sitting up – he was less sore, but still distressingly weak – and managed two of the potions.

"Good," Alistair said with a smile, returning the empty flasks to the bag. "I'll go get breakfast, and tell the chambermaid that they can remove the bath now."

"Or that they can refill it," Zevran suggested, and wrinkled his nose at the man. "You could use a bath too."

Alistair laughed. "All right. Breakfast for both of us, a bath for me, and then... well, whatever comes next."

"Probably more medication," Zevran said, and made a face. "I wish someone would figure out a way to make elfroot taste less foul."

"Sister Clothilde used to say that's how you knew it had worked and you could stop taking it – when you got well enough that you couldn't face the taste in comparison to the remaining pain any more."

Zevran snorted.

Breakfast for Zevran was the promised gruel, though at least it was pleasantly flavoured with spices and sweetening rather than the watery, tasteless stuff he'd had so often as a child. Alistair, meanwhile, tucked into a sizable breakfast of sausages, biscuits, bacon and eggs, along with a sizable bowl of raisin-flecked porridge, the stodgier cousin of Zevran's gruel. At least he ate his gruel while sitting properly at the table, dressed in one of Alistair's reasonably clean well-worn old shirts, while chambermaids bustled in and out, changing the bedding, building up the fire, and refilling the tub.

Granted he'd had to be dressed like a child and carried to the chair, and that keeping his balance while spooning up the gruel was much harder work than it should have been, at least he was beginning to feel as if he was, indeed, beginning to recover.

The meal done and cleared away, the tub refilled, the door once again closed, Alistair helped him back over to the bed. The man started to close the drapes around the bed.

"Please don't do that," Zevran told him. "I don't like... feeling enclosed, right now."

Alistair frowned slightly. "All right. But promise not to peek."

Zevran snorted. "Months on the road together, changing clothing and armour in all kinds of awkward conditions, even _bathing_ together in streams and ponds on the rare time we have a chance, and only now do you worry that I might _peek!_ I promise you Alistair, you do not have anything I have not seen several times already."

"Promise, or I'm calling the maids back to empty the tub, and you can just live with me stinking up the room."

Zevran snorted and rolled his eyes. "Fine, I promise," he said, and turned his head away.

A pause. "All right, then," Alistair said, and moved away. He heard the rustling of clothing, and the splashing sounds of the man lowering himself into the tub.

Zevran wrinkled his nose after a while. "You are using that terrible lye soap," he pointed out. "I can _smell_ it."

"It's good soap!"

"If you are a _floor_ ," Zevran said, and turned his head, smiling at the sight of the man in the tub, his wet skin lit with the glow of the nearby fire. A pleasant sight to rest his eyes on. He squirmed a little, settling more comfortably against the pillows, smelling clean and fresh and of a recent ironing.

"So tell me what happened when I was captured. The last I remember seeing was Kalli lying face-down on the ground, in a pool of blood."

Alistair shivered, and paused in his washing, staring blindly toward the fire for a moment. "We only just got there in time. Wouldn't have known that anything at all was wrong, except Slim heard a rumour about some Crows lurking in an alley, and sent us word about a potential ambush. And we knew you two were out on your own – good thing Kalli had left Dandelion behind with us, he trailed the two of you."

"Anyway, we got there just in time to see you being hauled off, and Kalli there, looking... pretty dead. If Wynne hadn't been _right there_ , if we'd been even a few seconds later – it was _close_ , Zev. That spirit of Wynne's helped her, and she almost drained herself healing Kalli, and we still almost lost her. Almost lost both; Wynne and Kalli had to be carried back to the estate. By then the surviving Crows were long gone, and when Dandelion tried to sniff along their trail he went into a sneezing fit and then refused."

"Ground pepper, most likely," Zevran said thoughtfully. "Sprinkle it on your back trail, and dogs are less likely to be able to follow it."

"Right. Anyway, we got them back to the estate, and poured healing potions into Kalli, and lyrium ones into Wynne. Wynne was okay by the next morning, but it was two days until Kalli was well enough to get up again. The rest of us had been trying to find out where you'd been taken, in the meantime, and just hoping we weren't going to be too... weren't too late..."

He broke off. From where he lay, Zevran could see tears dripping down the other man's face. "Do not cry," he said softly. "You were in time."

"No we _weren't_ , Zevran! _Maker_ , the condition you were in when we found you... it half-killed me just _seeing_ it, and you had it _happen_ to you. How do you go on after something like that!" he asked, looking toward the bed, his face filled with a mix of incomprehension, grief, and anger.

"You just... do. You either let it break you, or you find your way past it, and keep on living," Zevran whispered. "It was not the first time that... such as _that_... has been done to me."

"And that makes it _better!?_ "

"No. It merely means I have some better idea of how to survive having had it happen again. Come _here_ , Alistair," Zevran ordered.

The warrior rose out of the tub and stumbled towards the bed. He abruptly stopped. "You promised not to _peek!_ " he exclaimed, shock temporarily making him forget his tears.

Zevran laughed weakly. "Ah, my friend – such outraged modesty! Damn you, come _here_."

Alistair looked around, snatched up a towel and wrapped it around his waist, and continued to the bed, sinking down to sit on the edge. "What?" he asked miserably.

Zevran smiled, and took the man's large hand in his much smaller ones. "I am _here_. I am well enough. I am getting _better_. Do not torment yourself, thinking you weren't in time. You _were_. You rescued me, my friend, you and the others. Truly."

Alistair's hands tightened around Zevran's grip, almost painfully so. He managed a smile, though tears still slid from his eyes. "Maybe if you tell that to me enough, I'll be able to believe it. Maker, Zevran... how are you keeping so _calm_? I'm such a mess right now..." he sniffled.

Zevran smiled, and pulled on his arm, drawing him down enough that he could get his arms around the man, and hug him. "You're crying enough for both of us," he said softly. "And I am keeping calm because the alternative... is no better. Now calm down. All is and shall be well."

"Shouldn't I be the one comforting _you_?" Alistair asked tremulously after a while.

Zevran smirked. "I would not say no to a hug in return."

Powerful arms closed around him with surprising gentleness, and the two just held on tightly to each other for a few minutes. Finally Alistair sighed, and sat back, gently lowering Zevran back to the bed. "Sorry," he said, rubbing at his tear-streaked cheeks.

"Why? Honest tears do not offend me, especially when you shed them over _me_ ," Zevran said softly. "Now go, finish your bath or get dressed or whatever it is you need to do. I think I am ready to sleep for a while again."

"All right," Alistair agreed. And to Zevran's pleased surprise, leaned down to kiss him on the forehead before standing and walking away.

A strange man at times, Zevran mused as he settled back against the pillows, letting his eyes drift shut. Such a mix of innocence and tenderness hidden away in his warrior's heart, and such gentle strength.


	4. Chapter 4

The room was quiet when he woke up again; too quiet. He lay stiffly, holding his breath, listening for the sound of anyone in the room. No one.

"Alistair?" he whispered, voice shaky.

No answer.

He clenched his fists in the bedding. Alone. He was alone, and weaponless, and still so blighted _weak_. If Crows were to come through the door right this minute, he would be almost entirely helpless, easily recaptured, dragged off again...

He forced his panicked breathing to slow, and sat up, looking around the room for anything he could use as a weapon. Wherever Alistair had gone, he'd taken his sword with him. Finally he spotted something, a little knife sitting on the table near a bowl of fruit. He lunged across the room, staggering the last few steps, and snatched it up. The blade was small, only as long as his finger, but it was razor-sharp, and better than nothing. He clutched tightly onto the handle, leaning on the edge of the table as his knees sagged to the floor in relief, feeling overwhelmed with fear.

* * *

  
Alistair was whistling as he hurried along the street back to the inn where he and Zevran were staying. He'd taken a good long walk, all the way back to the marketplace and Arl Eamon's estate, and fetched Zevran's backpack from where it had been left when he and Kalli had gone out on their ill-fated walk. Best of all, he'd done it without encountering the Arl and having to stand through yet another lecture on his duty to become Ferelden's next King.

He stopped in the tap-room and ordered lunch for himself and Zevran – yet more invalid food for the elf, and he found himself grinning at the memory of Zevran's threat this morning about calf's foot jelly. Having been forced to eat that a time or two in his own childhood he could understand the elf's dislike of it. It _could_ be flavoured and seasoned enough to be tasty and look attractive, a glittering amber jelly thick with chunks of meat and bits of herbs and spices, but when served to invalids, and especially when poorly prepared, was more often a pale, clouded and greyish thick sticky jelly. He was willing to bet that Zevran, like he, had more experience of the latter than the former.

He went up the stairs, two at a time, and let himself into their room. And frowned. The bed was empty, the sheets trailing off the side onto the floor, Zevran nowhere in sight. A chill went through him. Had something happened to the elf while he was gone? They hadn't killed _all_ of the Crows in that fight, after all...

"Zevran?" he called, softly. A single very faint sound from somewhere in the room.

He dropped the backpack to the ground, closed the door behind him, and took a few steps farther into the room.

"Zevran?" he called again.

A whimper, this time, from the far side of the bed. He walked cautiously around the foot of it.

There was a narrow gap between the far side of the bed and the wall, just enough room for someone to get in and out on that side. Zevran was sitting down on the floor, his back pressed into the corner by the head, the trailing end of the bed curtains partially draped over him. He had his knees up, his wrists resting on them, both hands clenched in a white-knuckled grip around the handle of a paring knife Alistair had been using earlier to cut up an apple. His eyes were dark, pupils huge with fear.

Moving very slowly, Alistair raised his hands, open palms toward the elf. "Zevran? It's me," he said softly. "Are you...all right?"

The elf stared unseeingly at him for a long moment, then blinked, once, and licked at his lips. "Alistair...?"

"Yes, it's me..."

The elf _lunged_ with frightening speed, up off the floor and across the intervening space in an eye-blink, impacting against the warrior with enough force to knock him off his feet. For a moment he thought the assassin really was trying to kill him, until he heard a single strangled sob escape from him, felt the desperate way he clutched his arms around him, head burrowing against his shoulder. Alistair drew a shaky breath, and closed his own arms around the smaller man.

" _Maker_ , Zevran, what's wrong?" he asked softly.

"You _left_ ," the elf stuttered out. "I woke up and you were _gone_..." he broke off, just clutching more tightly to Alistair for a moment, shaking like a leaf. "Sorry," he managed after a minute, slowly releasing his grip. "I just... being alone..." he broke off again, shook his head, rapidly regaining his self-control, and with it his habitual silence about whatever emotions he might be feeling.

" _I'm_ the one who should be sorry, Zev," Alistair said remorsefully. "I should have at least let you know I was going out, not just... walked away like that."

The elf nodded and sat back, scrubbing at his face with one hand. The other still held the paring knife; even distraught, Zevran was not one to let go of a weapon. Alistair gave the knife an uneasy look. "Good thing I was wearing armour when you tackled me," he said, trying for a joking tone.

Zevran looked blankly at the knife in his hand for a moment, then laughed. Shakily, but still a laugh. "I promise you, my friend, if I ever stab you, it will _not_ be by accident."

"Oh, and that's _so_ reassuring," Alistair said, grinning, then rose to his feet, reaching down to offer Zevran a hand up as well.

He needed it, though once he was up he was able to stand unaided. He looked questioningly at Alistair. "So, where _did_ you go?" he asked.

"Back to the estate, to fetch your things for you," Alistair said, and nodded to the backpack abandoned on the floor. "I thought you'd be more comfortable with your own clothing and stuff."

Zevran nodded. "Can you bring the pack to me?" he asked, as he moved over to take a seat at the table, not wanting to admit he was too weak to pick it up and carry it himself.

Alistair nodded, and fetched it. Zevran dug through it, and sighed with relief as he drew out a spare dagger. "Not totally helpless any more," he said. "Am I right in thinking neither my weapons nor my armour were recovered when you rescued me?"

Alistair shook his head. "Never saw any sign of either. We'll need to get you outfitted from scratch, I suppose, apart from whatever is in that," he said, nodding at the backpack.

Zevran made a face. "That is going to be tiresome. Some of my gear is very specialized, and will be difficult to replace. Though perhaps Slim might have contacts among the local, ahh... _trustworthy_ merchants... who will be able to resupply some of the items I have lost.

There was a knock at the door just then – the inn servants bringing up their lunch. Zevran made his dagger disappear as Alistair crossed to open the door and let them in.

Zevran made a face at his lunch – broth, with some rusks to soak in it – but ate with a heartier appetite than he'd had earlier. Alistair, meanwhile, tucked into a thick slice of fried ham, fried potatoes, green peas dripping with melted butter, a bowl of stew redolent of mutton and onions, and a big wedge of apple pie.

Zevran watched Alistair inhale his meal as he ate his own much more slowly and fastidiously. He shook his head. "The way you Grey Wardens eat..."

Alistair grinned, and took another bite of pie, which he was holding in both hands and eating directly, rather than using a fork on.

"This does remind me though, there is something else I will need your help with once the meal is ended. Something of an especially pressing nature now that I am being allowed so-called solid foods again," he added, gesturing with a spoon laden with the drippy mush his rusks had turned into after soaking in the broth.

"What's that?" Alistair asked, licking the last bits of pie filling off his fingers.

"Umm. More help of a delicate nature. I will need assistance in applying that salve Wynne dropped off this morning. Normally I could apply it myself, but I am unfortunately rather lacking in, err... _flexibility_ , at the moment."

Alistair frowned. "Like spread it on your back or something? Sure..."

"There, too, yes," Zevran said guardedly, and hid a grin as Alistair caught on and started to flush with embarrassment. "Unfortunately it is a more _intimate_ location that needs the salve most."

Alistair covered his eyes with one hand. "The, ahh... place you didn't want to have to discuss Wynne's fingers in relation to?" he managed to ask, blushing as darkly red as the apples in the fruit bowl.

"Not to put too fine a point on it... but yes," Zevran said, then sighed. As enjoyable as teasing Alistair normally was, he knew he could not keep it up right now, not when the man was so honestly embarrassed by this, and being so genuinely helpful.

"I promise I would not be asking this of you if I thought I could do it myself," he told him sincerely. "Among other things I may... react poorly, to being handled that way right now, given my recent..." he broke off, felt his own cheeks flushing. Maker, for _him_ to be flustered by discussing this! And yet it was true, being touched _there_ right now by any hands but his own would likely seem a terrible intrusion. It would be better done by someone he was truly close with – _Kalli_ – but it was Alistair who was here, and for all their rocky start after he's first been taken in by the elven woman, he trusted the big warrior second-best of anyone in the group.

Strangely his own blush seemed to calm Alistair down. The warrior smiled weakly. "I'll do what I can," he said. "Just... let's take care of the less embarrassing bits first, okay?"

Zevran nodded, and pushed aside his empty bowl.

* * *

  
The lunch dishes had been cleared away, the room tidied up a little while they both gathered their nerves. Zevran stripped down, and lay face-down on the bed, while Alistair politely kept his back turned, washing his hands clean prior to beginning.

"How does my back look?" Zevran enquired as the warrior settled down on the bed beside him, the opened pot of salve by his knee.

"Better than it did. Wynne healed the worst of it already, but it's still bruised and cut, and some of the um, welt marks, are probably going to scar," Alistair said, managing a tolerably clinical tone as he dipped his hands in the pot and began spreading some of the thick greasy salve across Zevran's shoulders and back.

Zevran tensed for a moment at the touch, then sighed deeply, feeling the soothing coolness of the salve being gently spread across his skin. He forced himself to concentrate on the here-and-now, on the pleasant feeling of Alistair's strong fingers sliding over his skin, rather than on the too-recent past and the things that had happened to him in that lantern-lit room, on how other hands had touched him, tormented him. Alistair, he kept reminding himself. This is _Alistair_. You _trust_ this man.

"Keep talking," he said after a moment. "It is... _easier_ , if I can remember who is touching me."

" _Maker_ , Zev..." Alistair said, hands stilling for a moment.

"Just talk, please. About anything. The subject doesn't matter, just so I can hear your voice."

"All right," the warrior said, hesitantly, than began, some lengthy, convoluted story of his childhood back in Redcliffe.

Zevran relaxed at last, listening to his voice. Alistair seemed to relax as well, distracted in part by his own story, on telling it, his voice warming with the remembered joy of some summer day, long ago.

His hand paused, resting on Zevran's back just above his buttocks, his story broke off. "What, err... what do I do about..."

Zevran turned his head to the side to glance back over his shoulder at him, before turning his head away again, deciding this would be easier on them both if he was _not_ watching the man. He tried to keep his tone of voice even and clinical. "I will lift my, umm, _hindquarters_ a little, and spread myself as much as I can. You will need to take some of the salve on your fingers, and, ah... spread it. Inside me. Keep talking, please, this is going to be the most difficult part for me... for both us of, I suspect..." he trailed off.

"All right," Alistair said, voice low and a little strained, then resumed his story. Zevran took a few long slow breaths, giving them both time to prepare mentally, then folded his knees up under him, reaching back with both hands to grasp and pull apart his own buttocks. He heard Alistair stutter in his story-telling, then a moment later fingers touched hesitantly against him, slick and cool with salve, and pressed in. He gritted his teeth, burying his face in the pillows, forcing himself not to scream or fight against the intrusion.

Alistair, it is _Alistair_ , he told himself, over and over again, as the fingers slid in, deeper, and then began to move and twist and flex, spreading the salve. The voice continued, a bit shaky but smoothing out as Alistair continued his story, and Zevran managed to relax a little, listening to the warm, familiar voice.

And the touch was so _different_ than anything that had been done to him, so careful, even hesitant at times. Strong finger tips, rubbing and pushing, firm but gentle, nudging repeatedly against a certain spot inside. An unexpected jolt of pleasure shot through him, then another. Had it been any other man, he might have thought it was being done on purpose, but this was _Alistair_ , big naive easily-embarrassed Alistair, and _Maker_ that felt incredible, and he would not have thought he could feel this excited so soon afterwards and... his hands dropped down, knotting into the bedding, cock suddenly achingly erect, and he bit back a groan, mixed pleasure and pain and above-all _embarrassment_...

"Zevran? Did I hurt you?" Alistair asked, worriedly, breaking off his story, freezing with fingers still buried deep in Zevran and pressing firmly there, yes, just _there_...

Zevran lifted his head a little, fought to keep his tone of voice as normal as he could, to keep _himself_ from moving. "Not at all... I think... you might want to remove your fingers. Before I enjoy this... more than either of us will likely be comfortable with..."

And then Alistair startled, either the words having sunk in or him finally taking notice of Zevran's visibly excited state. It little mattered which, the end result was the same. His hand jerked, fingers _curling_ , and Zevran bucked backwards against them, muscles clenching, a keening cry of surprised pleasure exploding from him even as his seed spurted from him, spattering across the sheets, vision going out in bursts of red and white.

When he regained his senses, Alistair was gone, fled. Zevran swore pithily, and buried his flushed face in the pillows, ignoring the cooling moisture caught beneath his stomach as he fought to regain breath and composure both.

That had to have been his most embarrassing moment since puberty. If Alistair didn't kill him, he just might die of shame all on his own.

* * *

  
It was only when he came to a stop that Alistair realized he'd left his sword and shield behind in the room. He felt oddly naked without them, having had them in hand, or near to hand, pretty much every minute of every day since he'd started templar training. Granted, not that _exact_ sword and shield, but _a_ sword and shield, starting with the cheaply made hide shield and blunt learner's sword he'd had when he'd first begun training, and changing several times over the years, culminating in the pair he carried now, a sword they'd retrieved in parts from the Deep Roads, and a shield that Eamon had awarded Kalli in thanks for saving his life. A shield. For a _rogue_. Alistair shook his head, momentarily distracted by his lingering outraged disbelief over the Arl's actions since being revived.

He sighed, and leaned against a wall in a shadowed corner, well out of the way of traffic. He distractedly rubbed his fingers clean of salve on the tail of his cloak, then reached up, burying his head in his hands for a moment, fingers digging into his scalp. He'd messed up. Again. Somehow. At least he thought it might be his fault. It was, wasn't it? He'd tried to do what Zevran had said, and then...

He shuddered, remembering again in all-too-vivid detail the way the elf had looked, had _sounded_ , as he orgasmed onto the sheets. Worse, the way it had _felt_ , hot silken muscles clenching rhythmically around his fingers, the elf pressing back, the sudden curl of heat and _want_ in his own gut, the jerk of his own erection...

"This is not helping," he grated out to himself between clenched teeth, crossing his arms and tilting his head back to stare up at the slit of cloudy sky visible between the overhanging buildings. Feeling all too clearly how damnably constricting his armour was. At least he _was_ wearing armour, which meant his current state wasn't rampantly visible... making a huge display... _gah!_

It was definitely his fault. He'd thought he could handle it, no worse than... than... than pilling a horse, or turning a calf or lamb so it could be born, or anything else he'd had to do over the years involving sticking body parts in unfortunate locations. Except those had all involved animals, and Zevran was... Zevran was _Zevran_ , someone who could make him blush just by _looking_ at him. Who'd made it clear more than once, before Kalli finally dragged him off to her tent one night, that he was _interested_ in Alistair.

He'd never believed he felt any _interest_ in return  (oh yes, he had), because it wasn't natural to want another man that way (why not?), but... there had maybe been the odd time he'd had more of a reaction than just a blush (thank the Maker for armour!). But then Kalli and Zevran had become An Item (an unbearably, intriguingly _noisy_ item, at times) and he'd felt relieved  (no he hadn't) that the elf wasn't interested in him after all ( _lies!_ ).

He'd tried to keep his mind on doing a good job and just telling that damned silly story while rubbing salve into Zevran's back (skin just as soft and warm as he'd ever imagined), the story distracting him from the increased tightness of his leggings (but not _enough_ ). And he'd managed to keep his composure (true). Until the elf had _spread_ himself, and he'd had to touch _there_. He knew the whispered rumours, the dirty stories, told in the dormitories growing up, about how men could have sex together, one of them putting their... putting his... putting _it_ there  (why was it so hard to even _think_ that word? Penis penis _penis!_ ). He knew boys who'd claimed to have _done_ it, at least the putting-in part. He'd never believed it could be something... _pleasant_ , for either party involved (okay, maybe).

But the way Zevran had reacted, at the end... (oh _Maker!_ )

And then he'd ran, leaving the elf on his own...

Oh, _blight!_ _(Fuck!)_

He ran back to the inn, as fast as his feet could carry him, ignoring the startled looks of passersby. He'd left Zevran _alone!_

* * *

  
Zevran sat at the table, hands flat on the surface, fingers trembling just slightly. His dagger, unsheathed, lay between them, Alistair's naked sword beside it. He kept his breathing slow and even. He'd been fine, when he was cleaning himself up, stripping the soiled sheet off the bed. It wasn't until he was dressing – in his own clothing, from his own backpack – that the quietness of the room had started to make him feel ill-at-ease. Not helped at all by the rumble of outside sounds, voices and laughter drifting up from the taproom, occasional steps on the stairs or, worse, along the hallway outside.

Every scuffing footstep, every quiet creak of settling wood, could have heralded the approach of a crow or crows bent on killing or recapturing him.

But he was dressed, and had his dagger, and he would not be easily taken again.

Heavy footsteps running up the stairs, along the hallway. He tensed, keeping his hands from the blades with an effort as will as he _recognized_ the cadence of them, knowing even before the door flew open who it was.

The warrior paused in the doorway a moment, looking distraught, both hands still holding the door handle, body stiff with tension.

"Alistair," he croaked out.

The man seemed to almost collapse inwards, the tension draining out of him, his expression changing to one of... remorse? He closed the door, softly, leaned back against it, then slid heavily down to the floor, knees folding up, feet sliding a little out and apart. "Maker, Zev... I'm so sorry. It's all my fault..." he moaned, leaning forward to cover his face with his hands, elbows resting on his knees.

"What is?" Zevran asked, confused by the man's reaction. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting – anger, perhaps. But this?

"All... _this!_ What just happened... and then I _ran_ , and left you on your own again. I'm so sorry Zevran."

Zevran flushed slightly, answered softly. "It is not your fault, my friend. I... I did not think I would currently even be _capable_ of responding with anything but dislike and discomfort to... to being _handled_ so, or I would not have even asked, or at least warned you about... other possible reactions. _I_ am the one that should be sorry, Alistair. I promise you, I had no intent of... of... embarrassing us both so very thoroughly. You did nothing more than help me as I had asked. The fault is mine."

Alistair's hands dropped a little, moving to cup over his nose and mouth instead of his eyes. He flushed dark red, then spoke again, voice muffled behind his hands. "But I..." He broke off. There was a long pause.

"You what, Alistair?" Zevran asked, then managed a small smile. "Gave me an unexpectedly pleasant experience?"

"Zevran!" Alistair groaned, dropping his hands to hang between his knees, eyes closing and head tilting backwards to thump against the door. "Don't _joke_ about it, please...!"

Zevran sighed. "You should know me well enough by now to know that joking is one of the ways I deal with... uncomfortable truths. The _uncomfortable truth_ here is that I enjoyed it. I did not mean to, I did not _plan_ to, and I regret very much that it may have harmed the... the _friendship_ and trust between us. Because I would trust you with my life, Alistair. I have. I still _do_."

Alistair opened his eyes again, managed a weak smile. "I trust you too. With my life, and at my back. I didn't at first, you know," he said, expression abruptly going serious, thoughtful. "I didn't understand why Kalli had taken you in. I mean, you'd just tried to _kill_ us... I expected you to run at any moment, or kill us in our sleeps, poison us... _something_."

"Another uncomfortable truth. Those first few weeks... I was not deserving of trust. My pretty words to Kalli, my sworn oath, was a lie. A way to prevent my immediate death, with the plan of absconding as soon as seemed convenient. But the longer I stayed, the more I saw of Kalli, of you, how hard you were both working for a goal you considered important enough to risk your lives for... it changed me, I suppose you could say. I had never imagined there being a goal worth _willingly_ spending my life on."

Alistair looked puzzled. "But... you're an _assassin_..."

"And you've heard my stories before, of how I was bought and raised as one. _Bought_ , Alistair. That is not choice. That is not willing. That is _slavery_ , no matter what pretty dress someone tries to put upon it. Oh, willing enough for some years, eventually," he said dismissively. "I enjoyed the work, and the rewards were often quite pleasant, but I had no _choice_ , save kill or be killed. I was a bird in a gilded cage, performing on demand. And you have seen now how far the Crows will go to punish one who _stops_ being willing," he added darkly.

He paused, took a long breath. "Kalli gave me that. Gave me _choice_. Did you know she released me from my vows? Told me I was free to leave at any time? This was before she took me to her bed, you understand. And I made a choice, then, to stay with her and you, to help with this deed you both feel is so important. And swore again to her, but _meaning it_ this time."

Alistair smiled, warmly, reminiscently. "Kalli's a pretty special woman."

"Yes, she is."

The warrior looked down for a moment. "I'm... at least a little in love with her, I think," he confessed.

Zevran smiled. "She's more than a little in love with you too, I think."

Alistair gave him a startled look. "But... you and she..."

Zevran laughed, then. "A person can love more than one person, my friend. And I am..." he frowned, scratched his head. "Not threatening. _Safe_."

Alistair looked puzzled, and maybe just slightly hurt. "I would never threaten her, or... or _hurt_ her..."

Zevran sighed, shook his head. "That is not what I mean. You know of her past before Duncan conscripted her for the Grey Wardens?"

"A little," Alistair said, looking puzzled. "I know she lived in the alienage here in Denerim, and there was some incident, and she would have been arrested, except for Duncan..."

"Not what the incident was?"

"No, not any real details anyway. Something about a fight...?"

Zevran groaned. This time it was he that covered his eyes. "I am not sure whether or not I should tell you this, if she has not herself..."

"You're worrying me, Zevran," Alistair said, very softly. "What happened?"

"You have seen the gold ring she wears? On her left hand?"

"Yes, she's had that forever... she's been wearing it since before Ostagar, I think..."

"It is her wedding ring."

"She's _married!_ Did Duncan take her away from her family...?"

"Hush. No. She is not married. It happened on her wedding day. An arranged marriage, such as is common between elves in different alienages – a way of circulating the blood-lines. The _hahren_ , the elven elders, they keep track so that their people do not become inbred, as might otherwise happen with such small, widely-isolated populations. Anyway, she and a friend of hers were both to be married to elves from the Highever alienage. Unfortunately there was an... _incident_... early that day, with a young nobleman. He returned during the wedding, with his private guards and several other young nobles, and abducted the female members of the wedding party. You can guess what fate he planned for them," Zevran said, jaw setting grimly.

" _Maker...!_ "

"He'd slain one of the women, and had taken off and was raping another, a cousin of Kalli's, when the bridegrooms snuck in to attempt to rescue the ladies. Kalli's groom was killed during the escape. And she cut the throat of the nobleman herself. He was Bann Vaughan Kendells, son of the Arl of Denerim. No _minor_ crime, you see."

Alistair looked appalled, and sickened. "They'd have killed her for that," he said.

"Yes. Duncan saved her life by conscripting her. But her experiences have left her... _cautious_ of human men. I don't believe she is frightened of you, though she likely was at first. But it meant that of the two of us, I was the easier option for her to choose."

Alistair nodded. He was looking thoughtful again. Thoughtful and more than a little angry, on Kalli's behalf at a guess. "Thank you for telling me," he said.

Zevran nodded. "Hopefully Kalli will not be enraged at me for doing so. She is a formidable woman when angered."

Alistair gave a short laugh. "Yeah, she is that," he agreed, then sighed and rose to his feet. "I'm sorry for... overreacting. And for running away like that," he added, flushing again.

Zevran smiled. "I, too, am sorry. At least a little bit. Though I will not lie and say it is not a fond memory for me."

" _Zevran!_ "

Zevran laughed. "Enough. I promise not to tease you any further about it. But you must promise to stop apologizing for things you shouldn't be sorry for."

Alistair smiled crookedly. "All right. I'll try."

"Good. Now bring me another of those terrible potions, if you please. I would really like to be _better_ as soon as possible."

Alistair nodded, and brought over the sack of them.


	5. Chapter 5

Zevran managed to choke down three more potions by dinner time, and was enough improved in health that Alistair allowed him real food for once. Very bland real food – some plain boiled potatoes, and a lightly grilled piece of some rather tasteless white-fleshed fish, with a half-glass of well-watered white wine – but after nothing but invalid food since his rescue, it was ambrosial.

Alistair, he noticed, was seeming out-of-sorts, and drinking quite heavily. Heavily for Alistair, anyway – for someone like Oghren it would have been a mere aperitif. But two large goblets of red wine disappeared into the warrior before he'd even really started in on his roast beef dinner, and a third while he ate. By the time the inn servants came back to clear away the remains, he was in a much more... _relaxed_... state of mind than he usually was.

Zevran relaxed back in his own chair, still sipping – very _tiny_ sips – at the thimbleful of wine left in his own glass, stretching out the enjoyment of it as much as he could. Alistair, he noticed, seemed restless, shifting around in his chair and flushing red at intervals, unable to look directly at the elf. A couple of times the man drew breath and started to open his mouth, as if about to ask something, then closed his mouth again, words unsaid.

Finally he couldn't stand watching any more without comment. "You seem uncomfortable. Is something wrong, Alistair?"

Alistair darted him a startled look, paling for a moment before blushing even redder than before. "Nooo... not really. Just. I'm... Umm. I wanted to ask... look, nevermind," he said, and abruptly rose to his feet. "Forget it," he added, and turned and started to move away.

"Stop! Alistair, something is clearly bothering you," Zevran said quietly, his words freezing the man in his tracks. "Come, we are friends, and we have already established that we trust each other with our lives. What it is you want to ask?"

He waited, patiently, while the man fidgeted on the spot for a while, then abruptly returned to his chair. Alistair covered his eyes with his hands, elbows resting on the table, and flushed bright red. "Earlier, when I... when you..." He broke off abruptly, groaned. "I'm making a mess of this, aren't I?" he asked, then abruptly raised his head and met Zevran's eyes. "I never believed that... that _that_... was something that could _possibly_ feel good, apart from maybe for the one, ummm... putting in... oh, _Maker_ , just forget I asked," he said, turning almost crimson and dropping his head to rest on crossed arms.

Zevran carefully put aside his wine glass, biting on his lip momentarily to prevent a smile. Oh, dear... his poor, _naive_ friend...

"In truth parts of it can be quite uncomfortable," he said calmly, voice even-toned and without even a _hint_ of sexuality. "Care must be taken for it to be fully enjoyable for both partners. But there is a spot inside, which when... touched... it can be very pleasurable indeed. As you saw earlier. If you are truly curious, it is also something a man can do for himself, when errr... self-pleasuring. You could try it for yourself, the next time you..." he trailed off.

Alistair managed to turn an even darker red shade, even the shells of his ears a deep red, save where the cartilage underneath showed through in pale white lines. "I, ummm... don't."

"Don't? Don't _what?_ " Zevran asked, honestly puzzled.

"I... don't. Masturbate." And now even his scalp through his hair was pink-tinged, the back of his neck almost as red as rare steak. "I never have."

Shocked silence reigned for several minutes.

" _Really!_ " Zevran asked. He couldn't imagine... couldn't _comprehend_... any man denying himself that simple, pleasant release. "Why on the face of Thedas _not?_ "

Alistair actually raised his head, surprised by the honest shock in Zevran's voice. "The, um... at the chantry... we were told it was... _bad_ ," he whispered.

Zevran stared at him for a long moment, then began to swear, the phrases rolling from his mouth in long rolling cadences, thoroughly and completely cursing whomever had told his impressionable friend such a horrendous untruth. _He_ was the one turning red now, with incandescent anger. Oh, he knew such small-souled prudes existed, he'd met the type a time or two in his life, but... _this!_

Alistair looked first shocked, then horrified, but then the horror subsided, to be replaced with awed amusement, his rich red colour fading to a much healthier faint pink blush. He was sitting upright, arms crossed over his chest, and biting his own lips, by the time Zevran finally wound down. "You, um, disagree, I take it?"

"Yes! Most vehemently! There is nothing _bad_ about enjoying the pleasures of your own body, Alistair! It is one of the finest gifts the Maker has given us, that we may come together in pleasure. For someone to tell you that it was _wrong_ , was bad... _aaaah!_ I want to scream, you have been so badly done by, my friend. The only wrong is that you were told this evil vileness by some foul-minded person, and _believed_ it!"

He sank back in his chair, scowling and wishing he had strong drink to hand. This explained so much about his friend; worse than just innocent and naive, his poor bumbling friend was most vilely _repressed_ , if he had never even enjoyed what pleasures he could bring to himself with his own touch, much less what he could experience with another. Zevran had thought it was only the latter his friend had never experienced. No wonder he was so easily teased, flushed so readily. For years every _natural_ instinct of his must have been demanding stimulation, satisfaction, and fighting the nasty untruths that he had been taught to believe.

He couldn't sit still any more. He rose to his feet, pacing back and forth. Something had to be done, this wrong done his friend somehow righted.

* * *

  
Alistair watched Zevran pacing back and forth, and found himself feeling... oddly relieved. And touched, since the rogue had been so obviously angry on _his_ behalf. Mainly relieved, to have someone he trusted tell him that his... _urges_... weren't bad  (of course they weren't). That he had been lied to in the chantry (yes!).

Zevran abruptly stopped his pacing, and just stood there, staring off into space for a long moment, breathing deeply.

"Alistair. You trust me, yes?"

"With my life," Alistair agreed.

Zevran nodded, once, then stepped over to the mantelpiece and plucked an unlit candle out of a holder there. He brought it over and stood in front of Alistair, giving him a long, evaluating look, the candle held gently cupped before him in both hands.

"I am going to give you a gift," he said, voice soft but intense. "A gift someone once gave me, when I... needed it. I am going to give you the gift of a candle," he said, and held up the taper in one hand, raising a finger warningly on the other. "This is how it works. If you believe you can trust me enough with this, then you are to light this candle, and place it on the table beside the bed, undress, and join me on the bed. And for as long as the candle burns, I will teach you about the pleasures of your own body. If you do not think you want to try doing this, do not light the candle. If we begin, and it becomes too much for you, you can blow out the candle and I will _stop_. And whatever happens, from when you light the candle to when it goes out, I will never speak of unless you give me permission to, I will never make mention of it, never tease you about it, never refer to it in any way that will make you uncomfortable. It is a moment out of time, for as long as the candle burns. Unless you wish to acknowledge it afterwards, it _did not happen_. Do you understand?"

He stared at the candle, then met Zevran's eyes, the assassin looking more serious about this than anything he'd ever seen before short of a life-and-death situation. "I understand," he agreed, nervously (apprehensive and intrigued).

Zevran gave a short nod. "Good. And in this case, I also give you permission to _keep_ the candle, if you are not sure now, and use it at a later date when you feel more comfortable with the idea. There is no pressure. You may use it or not use it as you wish," he said, placed the candle down on the table before Alistair, turned, and walked away to sit down cross-legged on the bed.

Alistair stared down at the candle, debating. He _trusted_ Zevran  (completely), and while he could be pretty frightening at times, right now he... wasn't.

He glanced over toward the bed. Zevran was sitting quietly, not even looking at Alistair, just... waiting.

He could ignore the candle if he wanted to (but he didn't want to), even throw it away ( _no!_ ). Or put it away in his pack, right now, and eventually, some day, maybe, take it out and use it (but why wait?). Or light it, now, and use it, now, and find out, _now_ , what he'd been missing out on all these years ( _now!_ ). He reached out, touched it lightly with his fingertips, watched it roll slightly away across the tabletop. Just a candle, a simple cylinder of smooth pale waxy white, a bit of wick sticking out one end, the end of the wick just slightly frayed, individual threads standing loose from the bit of woven cord. Why did it seem so... frightening? Because it represented so much, perhaps (yes).

A gift of a candle. A moment outside of time.

He admitted to himself, more than a little reluctantly, that he wanted this ( _yeeeessss_...). He wanted to learn what Zevran could teach him, about himself. About... his own body. About the _pleasure_ he'd never felt outside of an occasional all-too-embarrassing wet dream  (mmmm, _yes!_ ).

He wanted this (this). He wanted Zevran (he wanted Zevran).

* * *

  
Zevran didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until he saw Alistair stand, and pick up the candle. The big man's hand was shaking just slightly as he touched it to one of the lit candles in the middle of the table, then carried it carefully over, one cupped hand shielding the flame as he moved. He paused by the side of the bed, momentarily meeting Zevran's eyes, then turned aside to dribble a little melted wax on the end table by the head of the bed, and stand the candle upright in it. He turned back, looking more than a little nervous, and began to slowly strip off his armour and clothing.

Zevran remained motionless on the bed, not moving to assist, just watching and waiting, giving the man time to compose himself, to ready himself. He kept his own breathing calm and slow, forbade his body to react at all to the sight of the big man stripping down. The way Alistair did it was simple, straightforward, not in any way meant to be an erotic act, and yet that it was _him_ , that he was trusting Zevran enough to become naked in front of him like this – _that_ made it deeply erotic. _Alistair_ certainly seemed to be finding it so, judging by his slowly developing erection.

He paused a moment, at the end, then blushed before pushing down the last item, his smallclothes, his erection bobbing free of the fabric. Zevran moved then, slowly rising up on his kneels, moving forward to the edge of the bed. He reached up, slipping his hand around the back of the warrior's neck, urged him downwards with just the slightest of pressures, and kissed him. An innocent kiss to start, just a gentle brushing together of lips, side to side, a tiny lick of tongue at the end to moisten and tease them.

"Lie down," he said quietly, calmly, and rose to his own feet as Alistair moved past him to sink down on the bed. He quickly circled the room, blowing out all the candles save for Alistair's, leaving the room lit only by the fire purring to itself in the grate, and the single candle. He stripped down as he moved, discarding his clothing wherever he chanced to be, pausing only once, to palm a vial of oil from his backpack. When he returned to the side of the bed, he was utterly naked as well. He stopped there for just a moment, looking down at the warrior.

* * *

  
Maker, he was nervous (and excited). He'd felt so scared stripping down in front of Zevran, though it was hardly the first time he'd been more-or-less naked before him (Changing armour, back carefully turned to the others in the tent. Bathing in a pond, feeling so _aware_ of the elf sporting in the water nearby like an otter at play...). And then that _kiss_ , simple, gentle, subtly teasing, and so full of... of tenderness. Of _promise_.

It was like a magic trick, how Zevran walked off fully dressed, and as the light throughout the room dimmed, grew more and more naked, until he returned to the bed, nude. _Gloriously_ nude, back-lit by orangey-red firelight, the faint light of the nearby candle casting every sculpted muscle in sharp relief. He was so beautiful  (so desirable).

He moved to join Alistair on the bed then, kneeling beside him and leaning down to kiss him again. Yes. This was _right_. This was perfect  (perfect)...

* * *

  
He spent several minutes just kissing Alistair, starting slowly, with gentle brushes and little teasing licks, until the warrior moaned, mouth opening under Zevran's, one of his hands moving to cup the back of Zevran's head, wanting _more_. Then a gentle thrusting lick with his tongue, in and out of his mouth, and in again, slick tongue sliding warmly over slick tongue. Alistair learned quickly; when the elf withdrew his tongue, kept his own mouth open, and sucked just slightly, the warrior's tongue hesitantly slid over into his own mouth, barely pausing before beginning its own gentle probing exploration, Alistair making little surprised sounds of pleasure as hands tangled in hair and the kisses grew more urgent, more heated, swapping back and forth as Alistair grew more confident in his own explorations, until Alistair was plundering Zevran's mouth, excited and breathless, both hands tangled in the elf's long blond hair.

Zevran moved his left hand up, laying it palm-down over the warrior's nipple, just resting there at first, then pressed against it with just the slightest amount of pressure, relaxing the touch, then repeating it again, until he felt the smooth skin beginning to pebble, the nipple beginning to rise up against his palm. Then he slid his hand to one side, teased the little nub gently with the side of his thumb, lifting his head slowly and ending the kiss at Alistair's surprised gasp of pleasure.

He sat back, bringing his right hand into play as well, gentle teasing touches, feeling a curl of tight heat forming deep in his own groin as he listened to the man's little whimpers and gasps of pleasure, watched him arching up into Zevran's touch, nearly overwhelmed already by so small an amount of gentle, teasing play. He backed off then, just running his hands in long, exploratory strokes along the man's skin, up and across his shoulders, down his long, so-muscular arms – as big around as Zevran's own thighs – back to his torso and down his sides. He used subtle pressure to guide Alistair's legs apart, then gracefully moved to kneel between them, hands keeping up their light stroking touches as he moved, until he was seated again. He stopped, letting his hands momentarily return to rest curled together in his own lap, running an admiring glance over the man's body.

He was so beautiful in this moment, every plane and curve of his body lit in glowing curves from the faint light of the fire and the nearby candle, looking back at Zevran with eyes hugely dark, his cock rigidly upright against his belly, a faint sheen of moisture on the tip, a streak of it on the skin of his belly where the tip had rubbed during their play. He looked so _trusting_ , so wanting and _wanton_... Zevran swallowed heavily. He must be careful with this so-innocent man. He would be _very_ careful, so as not to frighten or hurt him in any way.

He leaned forward, and ran the crooked back of one finger up the underside of Alistair's cock, from balls to just shy of tip. The man gasped, hands clenching tightly into the bedding, back arching, hips thrusting up against the touch. Again, a little more firmly, and a third time, firmer yet, knuckle pressing into the sensitive flesh. Alistair gave a surprised shout, head arched sharply backwards, body lifting in a high curve from the bed as thick white seed jetted out of him, pulsing across his stomach.

So easily undone. Amazing.

Zevran used a corner of one sheet to gently wipe Alistair clean, working slowly and waiting silently while the man recovered from his first orgasm. From his time with Kalli he knew of... Grey Warden stamina. With luck, it was as true for men as it was for the women... and yes, there, even as he finished wiping Alistair clean, the man's cock gave a faint twitch, already beginning to rise again.

This was going to be a very _interesting_ night, if he managed to not scare his friend  


* * *

  
Alistair's eyes eventually re-opened. He was looking more than a little dazed, and still so full of trust and _want_ that it made something ache deep inside Zevran. He moved to where he could reach down and cup his hand against the side of the warrior's face, looking deep into his eyes. "Are you well, my friend?" he asked gently. "Shall we keep on?"

The smile that crossed Alistair's face was like a sunrise, blinding in its brilliancy. "Yes. _Please_."

"All right then," he said, and leaned down to press a kiss to the man's forehead. He rearranged him with gentle touches, urging him to sit up against the headboard, pillows mounded supportively behind his back, knees spread and lifted, then returned to his spot between Alistair's legs. Alistair was watching him now, with bright-eyed curiosity, relaxed and happy-looking.

Zevran reached down, running his fingers lightly along the side of Alistair's cock, urging it gently back toward erection, ignoring for now the little rolls and thrusts of the warrior's hips. Eventually satisfied with its growing fullness, he cupped his fingers of his left hand around the top curve of it, thumb resting lightly against the slitted tip, gently rubbing the moisture beading there. Alistair gave a little shiver of pleasure, groaning just slightly as Zevran rubbed again. He rested his hand on the man's right hip, pressed down. "Try and stay still for this," he cautioned, then leaned down, and ran his tongue up the underside. Alistair gave a startled yelp, jerked, then froze. Zevran dipped his head, repeated the move, keeping up the pressure with his right hand as Alistair slowly eased his hips back down to the bed.

Once he was satisfied the man would at least _try_ to stay in place, he carefully rearranged his grip, letting his hand slide down to the root of Alistair's cock, then gently closed his mouth around the tip. Alistair gave a surprised, strangled cry at the sensation, and he could feel the man's muscles going taunt under his hand as Alistair struggled not to thrust into the hot moisture surrounding him. He stayed like that for a long moment, gently laving his tongue across Alistair's tip, swirling it in circles round the edge, probing firmly at the sensitive spot just beneath the head, until Alistair was whimpering with frustrated pleasure, beginning to edge towards orgasm again.

He withdrew his mouth then, pressed a gentle kiss to the thick vein along the underside. "Very good," he said softly. "Hold still as much longer as you can, but do not be afraid to move when you absolutely have to," he said, then lowered his mouth over Alistair's tip again, taking in a little more of it this time, letting his head slowly bob up and down, now engulfing the tip and tonguing at it again, now freeing it, with no particular rhythm as to when he allowed it to slip free. He carefully removed his hand from Alistair's hip, pleased that the warrior remained still when he did so, and then on one of the times he removed his mouth, quickly slicked his finger with his own spit before taking Alistair in once again.

He reached down, touching against the puckered ring of Alistair's rear, running his fingertip in a light circle, then applying gentle pressure. Alistair made a surprised sound, hips twitching once, before he stilled again. He breathing had gone very deep, and the faintest of tremors were running through him now, as he struggled to stay still.

Zevran withdrew his mouth again, for just a moment, and then as he took Alistair in yet again, matched the motion with firm pressure from his finger, feeling it slid smoothly into place, deep within Alistair. He moved it around just slightly, gentle little strokes, until he felt Alistair twitch again as his finger found just the right spot. He brought his finger to rest there, just barely moving it, heard Alistair's breathe catch, a faint whine escape him. And _pressed_.

He was ready for Alistair's explosive upwards jerk, drawing his head back rapidly even as Alistair thrust into his mouth, momentarily taking in more of him, but not too much. Alistair keened as Zevran's finger pressed again, hips jerking as his seed filled Zevran's mouth and was swallowed, the elf milking him dry, deftly removing mouth and finger as the warrior finally dropped back down to the bed.

There were tears in Alistair's eyes. "You see?" Zevran said and he moved to gently wipe them away. "It feels very good, doesn't it?"

" _Yes_..." Alistair sighed, and gave another of those beautiful smiles. "So good."

He spent a little time just cuddling with Alistair then, stroking his hands soothingly, reassuringly along his sides and back. He smiled as Alistair's own arms rose and wrapped around him, the warrior's hands mimicking the motions along his own back. Yes, this was right, the two of them holding and touching like this. Alistair needed this. _He_ needed this.

He fetched water for them both, holding the cup for Alistair to drink, then drinking some himself, before putting it aside. By then Alistair was ready to go again, and he – well, he'd been ready for a while, putting off his own release in favour of taking proper care of Alistair. This time, they would both take full enjoyment.

He retrieved the vial of oil from where he's hidden it earlier, under the pillows, and poured a little out, spreading a coating of it along Alistair's erection, then reaching back to prepare himself. Alistair looked a little worried as he understood what Zevran proposed to do next.

"Won't that... _hurt_ ," he asked, apprehensively.

"Maybe a little," Zevran said, deciding on total honesty. "But this is something I want, that we will both enjoy very much. This is... reclaiming a piece of myself, from what was done to me," he explained. "We will go very slowly, and very gently, and it will be very good for both of us, all right?"

Alistair swallowed nervously. "All right," he agreed.

Zevran could see he was still troubled, and spent some more time in reassuring him, with kissing and touching, until the warrior was looking calm again, his cock rigidly upright and ready, that part of him at least in full accord with Zevran's plans.

He moved to straddle Alistair's hips, keeping himself up in the air as he leaned down and kissed the man some more, toying again with his nipples, until he was writhing under Zevran's touch, eyes fully blown and making needy sounds. Only then did he lower himself, reaching back to guide Alistair into alignment, and began to slowly sink down, dropping his hand to press firmly on the man's hip as a wordless caution to stay still. He lowered his head to rest on Alistair's chest, gasping in mixed pain and pleasure as he slowly stretched, sank down, was filled by the warrior's erection. He was healed enough now for the pain from his earlier injuries to be very little, really, but the man was _large_ , so there was some.

He paused, finally, Alistair seated deep within him, almost to the root, both of them gasping for breath, and waited for his aching muscles to relax. Then, moving slowly, he raised his weight up off Alistair again, both of them moaning in pleasure at the feeling of flesh sliding along flesh. And back down again, still moving slowly, carefully, as gently as he could manage.

Alistair's hands rose to rest on his shoulders, trembling, sometimes clenching briefly, or moving in jerky little stroking motions, the warrior babbling broken fragments of words as Zevran moved, in between his cries and moans of pleasure. When they came, it was together, both of them crying out loudly as waves of pleasure took them, cresting and breaking over them.

* * *

  
Zevran lay quietly on his side, watching the candle through slitted eyes. It was almost out now, a little wisp of flame dancing over the surface of a melted puddle with hardened edges, the grain of the wood underneath visible through the clear melted wax.

He'd lost track long-since, of how many times they had come, together or singly. Mainly singly, Alistair under his hands or in his mouth or buried deep inside him. So many way to touch, so many positions to join bodies together in. He remembered riding the warrior, more than once, and being covered by him, Alistair's body arched over his, hips thrusting so sharply against him as the man cried out in pleasure yet again, Zevran's own cry a near-instant echo. The taste of Alistair's seed, and the world-shaking pleasure of seeing Alistair nervously taking _him_ in mouth for the first time, wanting to try some of what Zevran had shown him that night. The feel of Alistair's fingers moving deep inside him, finding on purpose that spot he had accidentally touched earlier that day. Pleasure upon pleasure upon pleasure, until now he was so tired and sore he could barely move. And yet it was a _good_ soreness, a healthy one, every inch of his body reclaimed now, _his_ again.

Even Alistair's incredible stamina was almost entirely worn away, the man lying spooned up against him now, Zevran's head pillowed on his left arm, his right arm hooked around his waist. Zevran hugged Alistair's hand against his chest with both of his own, the man's half-full erection tucked between Zevran's thighs. Alistair's hips were just barely rolling, just enough to keep up a slow, languorous slide back and forth through the slick of oil and seed there, as they both watched the candle flame growing slowly smaller and smaller, the room almost entirely dark now, the fire in the grate long since reduced to ashes and a last few lingering coals.

A grunt, a gasp, a faint shudder as Alistair came one last time, barely a dribble leaking out of his tip to drip warmly onto Zevran's thigh. Alistair leaned down, nosing aside the sweat-soaked hair to press a kiss to the back of the elf's neck, then slowly relaxed, going limp, breath gusting slow and even against Zevran's skin.

The flame shrunk, vanished. Zevran's eyes slid fully shut. All was quiet.


	6. Chapter 6

Judging by the street noises and the angle of light through the one small window, it was some time in mid-morning when Zevran woke. Alistair was still pressed up against his back, snoring quietly into his hair, one arm draped over his waist.

Zevran smiled, then hissed softly when an attempt to move made every muscle in his body protest. Last night had perhaps been a little overly strenuous a workout for a barely-healed body. Still, he would not have undone it for all the gold in Thedas; it had been a very special night, for Alistair as much as it had been for himself, he hoped.

He did not have a very long wait before he heard Alistair's snoring chop off, and felt him stir, then freeze, as the man realized he was in bed, naked, and entwined with another man. He heard Alistair groan, then felt him press his forehead against Zevran's back. He could _feel_ the heat of the man blushing, and could not keep back an amused chuckle.

"Are... are you all right?" Alistair asked hesitantly after a moment.

And how like him to be more concerned over Zevran's health than he own embarrassment.

"I am very well, though more than a little sore at the moment. I could use more of those so-delightful elfroot poisons. And we are both very much in need of baths, I fear."

"Elfroot potions," Alistair corrected him.

"No, judging by the taste alone they are pure poison. But one I sadly still require."

Alistair laughed softly, then sat up, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of one hand. His blush had mainly faded now. He glanced sideways at Zevran. "So, um... what now?"

"Apart from bathing and brunch? That is entirely up to you, my friend. Unless you decide otherwise, it did not happen."

Alistair frowned thoughtfully, glancing at the hardened puddle of wax still stuck to the bedside table. "I'd better see about baths and food," he muttered, and climbed out of bed.

"See about a change of bedding too, please. And you might want to open the window so it can air out a little in here."

Alistair grinned, as he yanked on and tied the drawstring of a pair of breeches. "Yes, your highness."

Zevran smirked, and began the laborious process of getting himself upright without help when every muscle ached.

* * *

  
Watching Alistair not-watching the maids as they filled the tubs – two of them, so both men could bathe at the same time – stripped and changed the stained bedding, and set out a meal, was quite entertaining, Zevran decided. The man still blushed so damnably easy, though Zevran at least entertained the hope that some of it was due to memories of the night before, and not just the poor man's terrible self-consciousness. He himself sat quietly on a chair, more-or-less modestly dressed in one of Alistair's overly large nightshirts – he thought there was little point in dirtying one of his own clean ones prior to taking a bath, when all of Alistair's appeared to be overdue for laundering anyway. Besides, Alistair's was over-large enough on him that he could hide his dagger on the seat of the chair under a fold of it, just in case one of the maids turned out to be a Crow in disguise.

A little paranoid, perhaps, but far better paranoid than dead.

Finally the last maid had departed and the door was closed again, and Zevran rose to his feet, stripping out of the shirt and bee-lining for one of the tubs. Alistair was only a step behind him, the warrior also wanting to cleanse the remnants of last night's activities from his body.

Zevran sighed with pleasure as the hot water drove off much of the worst aches. He soaked happily for a while before finally taken up the soap – his own preferred sandlewood-and-musk, from his backpack – and began washing off. He glanced over at the other tub, where Alistair was industriously washing between his toes. "You're not using that dreadful lye soap any more," he said in surprise.

Alistair smiled crookedly. "No, well, I seem to have acquired this bar of honey and scam... shamma..."

"Chamomile."

"Honey and chamomile soap. I figured I might as well see it didn't go to waste."

Zevran grinned. "Waste not, want not, I suppose."

"Exactly," Alistair said, then abruptly rose to his feet, water sheeting off of him into the tub. "Maker, if I don't eat soon I swear my stomach is going to crawl up my throat and eat my brain," he exclaimed, and gave himself only the most token of wipe-downs before wrapping the towel around his waist and walking over to the table, not even bothering to sit down before snatching up a scone and stuffing it into his mouth in one huge bite, scattering crumbs as he messily devoured it, already reaching to stab a fork into a fried sausage before he'd even swallowed.

Zevran grinned, and finished his own bath, dried, and pulled on clean clothing before joining Alistair at table to make his own more decorous meal off of whatever the hungry warden hadn't already consumed.

"Sorry," Alistair muttered, looking a little embarrassed. "Long time since supper yesterday and I seem to have used up a lot of energy overnight."

Zevran nodded, keeping a smirk from his lips with an effort of will.

Alistair darted him a shy look out of the corner of his eyes, and neatly put his cutlery down on his plate. "By the way. Last night... very much happened. Thank you."

Zevran smiled warmly at him. "Good."

Alistair rose to his feet and stepped around the table, then leaned down to kiss Zevran on the lips, mouth opening invitingly. Zevran made an approving sound, cupping his hand around the back of the man's neck and closing his eyes as they kissed.

The door abruptly opened. Both men jumped, and turned to see Kalli standing in the doorway, staring at them in wide-eyed shock. Alistair's towel chose that moment to part ways with his waist, slipping down to the floor and making it all-too clear just how much he'd been enjoying the kiss.

"I believe we may have forgotten to lock the door," Zevran said thoughtfully, as Alistair turned beet red.

* * *

  
"Oh... _dear_..." Kalli said softly, as Alistair dove into hiding behind one of the curtained bed-posts. She stepped into the room, clapping one hand over her eyes even as she deftly closed the door with the other, before moving back to lean heavily against it. "Zevran, have you been debauching my fellow warden?"

"Mmm, no, not as such," he said with studied innocence. "I rather think it was _he_ doing the debauching last night."

Zevran was pleased to see Alistair's eyes were bright with amusement, even if he _was_ still blushing with embarrassment while hurriedly looking through his pack for some clothing.

"You may uncover your eyes now, _mi corazón_ , our friend is decently dressed," Zevran said once Alistair had found clean smallclothes and pulled on a pair of only lightly-stained leggings.

Kalli dropped her hand, straightened up, and walked over to the table, snagging a leftover breakfast pastry. She took a large bite of it, then looked back and forth from Zevran – still looking perfectly calm and at his ease – to Alistair, whose blushes had faded to just a touch of pink high on his cheeks. "I should have known better than to leave him alone with you for so long," she scolded Zevran. "You're a menace!"

Zevran grinned toothily. "Didn't we have this conversation previously, _mi tesoro?_ "

Kalli shook her finger threateningly at him. "Hush, you," she snapped, then turned and looked penetratingly at Alistair for a moment. "He didn't blackmail you, or trick you, or get you drunk and take advantage of you or anything like that, did he?" she asked suspiciously.

Alistair blushed again. "No, it was nothing like that," he said shyly. "It was... I was..."

"It was a gift of a candle," Zevran said, very quietly but firmly.

Kalli turned and gave him a very penetrating look, then slowly smiled. He'd made such a gift to Kalli as well, when she'd been so frightened by her experiences in Bann Vaughan's hands, by what had happened to her friends and – worst of all – to her cousin, that she had been unable to face bedding anyone, even he. She shook her head, an amused smile curving her lips, and stepped close, leaning down to give him a very warm kiss.

"Oh. Um... I'll just... go downstairs for a while..." Alistair said, blushing again and starting to edge past the pair of them.

Without looking, Zevran reached out and caught his sleeve, and tugged him to a stop. He broke the kiss with Kalli, and rose to his feet, sliding his arm around her as he turned and looked up at Alistair, moving his hand from Alistair's sleeve to the back of his neck. "I do not think you need to leave," he said solemnly, and then pulled him gently down to kiss him briefly on the lips, before turning and looking questioningly at Kalli. She looked at him, surprised, then turned and looked speculatively at Alistair.

Alistair met her gaze. His blush darkened, then Kalli's lips quirked in amusement, and he smiled and leaned down to exchange a hesitant kiss with her. A hesitant kiss that very quickly turned into a passionate one, Kalli releasing her grip on Zevran to hang both arms around Alistair's neck.

Zevran grinned, and let go his hold on both of them, walking over to the door. It took them a moment to notice.

"Hey!" Alistair called out.

"And where do you think _you're_ going!" Kalli demanded.

Zevran stopped for a moment and turned back to smile happily at the pair of them. "I am making sure the door is _locked_ this time," he said firmly. "Before we move this to the bed. Or do either of you need to be elsewhere in the next little while, my darlings?"

Alistair and Zevran both looked questioningly at Kalli. She bit her lip for a moment, then smiled and shook her head. "Arl Eamon can damn well _wait_ , for once," she said firmly. "I seem to have more pressing commitments _here_."

Zevran grinned, and turned to take the last few steps to the door, making sure it was indeed locked, then went to join his wardens on the bed.

As he cried out between the two of them a little later, he found himself feeling unexpectedly thankful. It had been the luck of the draw that he'd ended up here, in Ferelden, after fleeing Antiva. Random chance that the information about the contract on the two wardens had caught his attention. Unforeseen happenstance that he had survived the failed ambush on the pair, unlooked-for mercy that Kalli had taken him in, the Maker's own blessing that she and he had come to care for one another, as he had cared for no other since Rinna's death. And now, utter bliss, not one but _two_ beloved friends.

It was enough for going on with. More than enough. A place to belong.


End file.
